


Love by Hoping

by enthugger



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Depressed Grantaire, Forehead Kisses, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Mythology References, Unresolved Sexual Tension, bad references to ovid, enjolras is tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-28 08:39:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16720023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthugger/pseuds/enthugger
Summary: He’s seen Enjolras chase things with just as much urgency, seen him run until his lungs are burning, his hair is dirty, and his knuckles are bruised. Grantaire thinks they must be cowards to shrink from his light.Some days, Grantaire thinks he might know all too well the way cowards think.





	Love by Hoping

_“Sic deus in flammas abiit, sic pectore toto/uritur et sterilem sperando nutrit amorem.”_  
Thus the god departed into flames, thus he is burned in his whole heart and he feeds futile love by hoping.  
Ovid, _Metamorphoses_ , 1.495-6

\--

Daphne was a fool, Grantaire thinks. 

For hating the sun so much that she went down in history for fearing its brightness, for running from Apollo’s chariot until her legs gave out and grew roots into the earth. Grantaire thinks that he might have killed for even a fraction of the sun’s warmth in her place. He’s found that gods are much more willing to be chased than to spare enough thought to mortals to pursue them. 

But then again, he’s seen Enjolras seek things with just as much urgency, seen him run until his lungs are burning, his hair is dirty, and his knuckles are bruised. Grantaire thinks they must be cowards to shrink from his light. 

Some days, Grantaire thinks he might know all too well the way cowards think. 

Today is one of those days, when Enjolras arrives late and stays late at the Musain. It’s a day when Grantaire is drunker than he should be, but not yet as drunk as he intends to be. His friends have slowly trickled out, pausing to touch his shoulder, or his arm, or in Prouvaire’s case, kiss him swiftly on the cheek. Once they recognize that he is not in the mood for revelry, they all tend to leave. Understandably, Grantaire often thinks. He would walk out on himself if given the chance. 

Finally, the laughter and the comforting lull of voices disappears from the Musain’s back room entirely, leaving him alone with the clink of his own glass against the table and the scratch of Enjolras’s pen behind him. 

Enjolras is never quiet, but he has been what could be considered an Enjolras version of quiet during that night’s meeting. 

His arrival had been something of a commotion. He had breezed in, moving immediately to Combeferre’s side and leaning to study something over his shoulder, but his appearance ruined whatever sort of normality he was attempting to portray. His hair was loose, obscuring his face in a small wave; he had clearly been on an assignment, and it had clearly gone wrong. Upon seeing him, Combeferre abandoned his previous task, seized him and pushed him down into the nearest chair, tilting his face to examine a slight bruise forming under one eye. Courfeyrac reached for his right hand only to exclaim over the state of his knuckles, which were split and covered in a layer of dried blood. Enjolras had waved them both off, clearly annoyed by his own lateness and impatient to start the meeting, but Grantaire noted how the two of them had stayed close to Enjolras all night, Courfeyrac nudging his arm whenever he needed his attention, or Combeferre leaning his head towards Enjolras’s to speak with him. 

Clearly, they were worried. 

But Enjolras had never taken well to being worried over and had calmly brushed away their concerns once the meeting was over. So now, only the two of them remain in the late night quiet of the Musain. At times, Grantaire can practically feel Enjolras behind him: a hot, pulsing center of the room that prickles the back of his neck even from two tables away. 

After what feels like ages of this agonizing blend of distance and closeness, Grantaire decides that he can no longer stand it. He turns slightly in his chair and is startled to meet Enjolras’ bright blue eyes already looking his way. When their gazes meet, Enjolras blushes and turns away, back to his work. But as it usually is when he finds himself looking at Enjolras, Grantaire can’t seem to stop. He watches as Enjolras brushes a stray lock of hair behind one ear, notes the way his pale eyelashes almost touch the tops of his cheekbones when he blinks. He looks exhausted. 

Enjolras pauses in his writing for a moment, setting down his pen and stretching out his bruised hand with a wince. He hasn’t noticed Grantaire still looking at him, until Grantaire stands up and makes his way over to the other table. 

Enjolras looks up at him with a sigh. 

“I don’t have time for your arguments tonight, Grantaire.” His voice is quiet, but steady, steadier than he looks. 

“I didn’t come here to argue.” 

“Then why-“ Enjolras cuts himself off abruptly, tapping one finger impatiently against the table. Much to Grantaire’s relief, as he’s not sure he knows the answer himself. 

Why _is_ he here? To stave off the crushing loneliness of existence? Probably. To drink? More likely. 

Before he can question his own motives further, Grantaire sits down in the chair beside Enjolras. Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and takes a breath as if to speak again, but Grantaire cuts him off before he begins. 

“I know, I know, there are worlds to be saved and you have no time for me.” Grantaire motions to the bruised hand on the table between them. “Let me look at your hand and then I promise I’ll go as far away as you want me to. Perhaps I’ll never return.” 

He hardly expects Enjolras to let him finish speaking, much less initiate touch, but he simply moves his hand into Grantaire’s with another small sigh. 

“As I keep telling everyone tonight, I’m fine.” 

Grantaire gently closes his own fingers around Enjolras’s, suddenly aware of how sweaty his palms are. He brings Enjolras’s hand closer, studying the split skin of his knuckles, the puffy bruises starting to form beneath dried blood. 

“You should clean this, at least,” Grantaire decides finally. “Then I’ll leave you alone.” 

“You are the expert in these things, I suppose.” Enjorlas’s voice is dry with something that sounds like humor and Grantaire smiles, tentative and genuine. 

“My scars were earned in much less noble pursuits than yours, I’m sure.” 

Enjolras doesn’t seem forthcoming with the story of his exploits, so Grantaire glances around in search of something to clean the wounds with. Finding nothing, he shoots Enjolras what he hopes is an apologetic glance before pulling out his own, thankfully clean, handkerchief.

He dips the cloth into his nearly empty glass and the moment he touches it to Enjolras’s hand, his long slim fingers tighten around Grantaire’s in response. Grantaire is thankful that he’s already had a few glasses, otherwise he knows his hands would be shaking. As much as Enjolras could stand to be distracted from the pain, he decides that it is becoming equally necessary to distract himself from Enjolras during the short task. So, he does what he does best: talk. 

“Are you familiar with the story of Apollo and Daphne, Enjolras?” 

Enjolras responds with a small huff of breath, which Grantaire feels almost against his shoulder. He suppresses a shudder and, unsure if he should take the response as a positive or a negative, stays silent until Enjolras says quietly, “Tell me.” 

It’s the first time Grantaire can remember Enjolras requesting his speech. Usually it is met with rolled eyes and impatience and the back of Enjolras’s golden head. The invitation itself is surprising enough that it almost stops Grantaire’s tongue, but he draws Enjolras’s hand closer to him to dab at his knuckles from a different angle and continues. 

“It was all Cupid’s fault, really. But Apollo always tends to come out on the losing end of the tale. You see, Cupid shot him with an arrow that filled him with all of Venus’s passion, pierced –“ he gives Enjolras a sideways glance and sees that he is watching Grantaire thoughtfully through half-lidded eyes, “with love for a half-mortal woman, Daphne, who had sworn herself to his sister, Artemis.

In addition to having pledged herself to the huntresses, out of the company of men, Eros shot Daphne with another arrow that cursed her to scorn Apollo’s love. She hated him. She ran from him. She spurned his advances at all costs.” 

Grantaire sets his handkerchief aside and replaces it with his other hand, encasing Enjolras’s in a sort of embrace between his own. Enjolras squeezes his fingers gently, and, emboldened, he continues. 

“Once she had run far enough and long enough into the woods, Cupid finally allowed Apollo to reach Daphne. But even as she was almost caught, she refused to be claimed by him. She prayed to her father, Peneus, to help her escape and in a way, he did, by transforming her into a tree. But even in that form, Apollo loved her, and he turned her new branches into his laurel wreath.” 

“She chose to give up her selfhood rather than accept his love.” Enjolras extracts his hand carefully from Grantaire’s and rubs it over his face. “But still she was forced to be a part of him forever. What do you mean by this, Grantaire?” 

Grantaire looks over at his glass, wishes it were full instead of empty. 

“I rarely mean anything by what I say, you know this. Only, I think Daphne was a fool to pass up the love of a god.” 

“It was not her lack of desire, necessarily, that kept them apart. It was Eros, and Artemis. She had already sworn herself to a cause from which she could not turn back.” 

Grantaire blinks, unsure how to proceed, as Enjolras’s hand moves once more from where it now rests on the table between them. He feels his breath catch in his throat as it comes to rest on his shoulder, Enjolras’s thumb stroking once over the racing pulse in his neck. 

“What has always seemed strange to me is that she become something with even more need of the sun,” Grantaire’s voice comes out hoarser than he intends, and he can’t quite keep a hint of melancholy out of his tone when he continues, “I presume she spent the rest of her eternity growing towards the sky, towards him.” 

Enjolras leans forward towards him, until Grantaire can feel a soft breath against his cheek. 

“He was never lost, Grantaire,” Enjolras’s voice is practically in his ear. “Only…blinded.” 

“Distanced by his own needs,” Grantaire murmurs, hopes Enjolras can’t smell the alcohol on his breath from so close a distance. 

They sit in silence for what feels like an eternity, Enjolras’s hand resting on Grantaire’s shoulder and Grantaire’s clutching the table in a white-knuckled grip that he hopes isn’t noticeable. Finally, Enjolras moves, slowly, as if giving Grantaire time to pull away, and presses his lips to Grantaire’s forehead in a soft, chaste kiss. 

At first, Grantaire thinks, hopes, that he may have overindulged and died. Enjolras’s lips are cool against his too-hot skin, a blond curl tickles his nose, and Grantaire closes his eyes, hoping that if he doesn’t look and doesn’t move, the moment might last forever. But already, Enjolras is moving away, pushing his chair back, standing up. The space around them seems to grow cold as he moves, like branches blocked suddenly from the sun’s warmth on an autumn afternoon. 

“Don’t – “ _Don’t go. Don’t leave me._ The words stick in his throat. For the second time in so many minutes, Grantaire wishes his glass was full again. 

Beside him, Enjolras is packing his things, slowly and less than methodically, pushing papers into a bag that he slings over one shoulder, until finally he turns his gaze back to Grantaire, who thinks he may never have felt as much want as he does in this moment. 

“Thank you,” Enjolras’s words are simple, but perfect enough that they would have pierced Grantaire’s chest like Eros’s arrows had he not already been shot long ago. 

He reaches out for Enjolras’s hand in response, where it hangs limply at his side, and takes it in his own once more. Enjolras merely watches him, gaze soft and tired. Before he can think better of it, Grantaire lifts the hand and kisses the bruised skin of Enjolras’s knuckles in a poor mockery of chivalry. 

Enjolras slides his hand from Grantaire’s slackened grip and Grantaire barely looks up to see him leave. His footsteps pause, after a moment, and his voice carries back across the room, “Goodnight, Grantaire.” 

Grantaire, who has already dropped his face into his arms, mutters his response to the watermarked table in front of him,

“Goodnight.” _Apollo._

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies to my old latin teacher...Feedback is always lovely and appreciated, and if anyone wants to talk to me about these sad gay French boys over on tumblr hit me up [here!](www.williamvapespeare.tumblr.com)


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